


Renegade

by xagentofchaos



Series: Wincest drabbles [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sam, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, back from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xagentofchaos/pseuds/xagentofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“His voice brought back memories of dark rooms and broken bones”</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Dean knocked on the door, smiling as if nothing has happened, as if he hadn’t been dead for a couple of months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renegade

The sky was velvet black, almost silky if you reached out to touch it. But inside him, it was foggy and thick. He was drunk that night, breathing in the reeking aroma from cheap whiskey and cigars. This wasn’t usually the place he’d spend his Friday night, surrounded with beer belly men and short skirted girls. He came here to understand the hype, to understand why people would waste their time drinking in a bar with strangers. Because no one around him was talking, everyone was puffing smoke out of thick sticks and slurping strong liquor into their livers. 

Sam sipped the last ounce of his burning whiskey and called it a day, paying his brunette waiter some extra tip and then left. He swayed in his movements when walking out the doors, his head exploding with nausea. But coming out in the fresh, crispy air woke him up from the dizzy dullness in his head. He’ll never understand the temptation of getting smashed. 

Crashing into the bed, head first; Sam was almost completely knocked out into a heavy sleep when someone knocked on the door. At first he thought it was an afterglow of drinking too much, but when the knocking continued he glared at the door. The knocking turned into banging and the person outside would break it if Sam didn’t answer. So he got up, his body screaming at him to lay the fuck down and sleep, but he ignored its threats. 

He stumbled to the door, still dressed in his reeking clothes and dirty shoes. Hair was tousled on his head; like a rat had died in its nest. He could barely even see his hands before him because of his intoxicated insides; his eyes dull with alcohol substance. So when he opened the door, he couldn’t see who the figure was, neither when it smiled nor spread its arms in a hug. 

“Are you drunk, Sammy?” the figure asked, barking out a laugh. Sam had to hold on to the door seal to not fall on the ground, shouting profanities in his head at the drunken movements. 

“Don’- don’t call me tha, only my brotha- my broth-,” he slurred and rubbed his eyes. Looking up again, the figure had a face. And he went deathly quiet. 

“Hi, Sam,” Dean smiled. As if nothing had happened. As if Sam would bring him in with open arms. He didn’t. He just stumbled backwards into the room again, rubbing his eyes frenetically, trying to wake up from the nightmare. His eyes burned, just like the whiskey had burned down his throat just an hour ago. 

For months he had been drinking at disgusting bars, throwing himself at cheap girls and playing pool with all money he owned. For months he didn’t understand the purpose, didn’t understand the hype. But having Dean in the same room as himself again, after _months_ of torturous nights, he understood. He had been Dean. To fill the gap of loneliness of his brother being dead, he had been Dean to not fall apart. 

“I’m dreaming,” Sam whispered, his back turned to the imagined figure that looked like Dean. “I’m just dreaming, this is a dream.”

“Afraid not, Sammy,” Dean said behind him, getting closer. His steps thumping like a hammer in Sam’s head. Sam was still rubbing, rubbing so hard the skin flaked, his drunken mind spinning like a carousel. Spinning faster and faster until he couldn’t stand straight anymore. So he fell. But didn’t hit the ground. Instead he was held by a pair of strong arms, holding him tightly; close to a warm layer of clothes. 

Sam hid in his hands, didn’t dare to look his brother in the eyes; didn’t want to get his hopes up again. _I’m just dreaming, this is just a dream_ , he thought over and over again. Inked it into his brain. 

“I’m here,” Dean murmured into Sam’s hair, breathing hot air on his skull. His voice brought back memories of dark rooms and broken bones. The night he died. The night Sam was screaming so hard his throat bled, holding his brother in his arms, hard to not shake. But he shook, he shook so violently. Crying, bleeding and screaming at his brother’s dead body to awake. He didn’t. He was still in Sam’s arms, bones twisted in all different kinds of angles. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

He was being manhandled, lifted up above the ground, carried to the stiff motel bed. The imagined figure brought the blanket to his chin, tucked him in. Sam stared at his brother in the dull dark; he looked like nothing had happened to him. As if his whole body hadn’t been crushed, as if Sam hadn’t buried him with an aching heart and burning tears down his cheeks. As if his whole life hadn’t been turned upside down and he’d stopped talking to everyone and no one; reaching out to a slow and torturous exit: alcohol. 

“Are you a ghost?” Sam whispered, voice thick. He kept staring, couldn’t look away in case his brother would disappear. 

“No,” Dean smiled; looking down at his younger brother with big, warm eyes. As if nothing happened. Sam couldn’t take it; he couldn’t take the fond in Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t handle the painful ache in his body for seeing his brother again. 

So he hauled himself up from the bed in a sitting position and grabbed Dean’s collar in both hands. With a rough tug, he forced Dean’s face to his and crashed their lips together. Messy and violent and just the right amount of pain he needed. Heat dwelled between them, pulsing of electricity from the kiss. Dean moaned into his mouth and pushed his brother backwards into the bed, slipped between his legs. 

They kissed for a long time, could be hours passing. Sam wanted to bury himself in Dean’s body to feel the warmth and protection for an eternity. Dean held his face between his hands, placed sloppy kisses on his skin; whispered words in his hair. Words Sam didn’t recognize because he was too caught up in the realization that _Dean was back_. Alive. Not dead. _His Dean_. 

It made him cry, it made him spill his anguishing torment from those months into the night. He sobbed loudly on Dean’s shoulder, hugging him closer to his body. Dean was still on top of him, pressing his weight on Sam, murmured soothing comforts to him; promises of a future Sam thought he’d have to spend alone. But as they both fell asleep an hour later, when Sam’s eyes were dry and itchy, he slept with a feeling in his heart. For the first time in many months, he was happy.


End file.
